Autopsy
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: A professor of mine once told me that the most difficult autopsy he’d ever performed had been on a colleague of his. I think I’ve got him beat. Written for the NFA Community's The Name is Palmer. Jimmy Palmer Challenge. Spoilers for most of Season Six!


A professor of mine once told me that the most difficult autopsy he'd ever performed had been on a colleague of his.

I think I've got him beat.

"Mr. Palmer..." He hesitated. "Jimmy, if you would prefer to sit this one out, I would understand."

I finally tore my eyes away from the body…_her _body. Dr. Mallard was looking at me with such sympathy and understanding that I had to wonder if he too had been put in this position during his long time with NCIS. "No, Doctor," I proclaimed with a shaky tone and a forced smile, "I'll be fine."

He was dubious, but he didn't argue. The truth is I _did_ want to sit this one out. I wanted to forget about it, pretend like it had all been a nightmare and that I would wake up from it. It was hard to pretend that when I was making an incision into her dead form and removing her organs one by one. So why hadn't I taken him up on his generous offer?

I knew why; it was because I needed to see her one last time, even in this gruesome form.

"Would you like to start the incision or shall I?"

I gulped, trying to get rid of the lump that had formed in my throat. In my hand I held a scalpel which shook visibly in my weakening grasp. "I…I'll do it." It _had_ to be me, I knew it did; because I was the one who knew her, who knew the _real_ her.

I looked down at her lifeless body, lying there atop the table. It was the same table on which—and under which—we'd engaged in carnal pleasures more times than I could count. I fought the urge to mention the irony of the situation.

I pulled back the sheet, wincing at the sight of the horrific bullet holes that decorated her once beautiful chest. My hands had run over that skin so many times, all times enjoyable and pleasurable.

This time I didn't want to touch it.

The scalpel sliced through in a clean line, a wonder considering how badly my hand was shaking. As if on autopilot, I went through the motions, doing what he had done on hundreds of other cadavers. Pull back flaps….snap ribs…remove sternum… "Lungs," I said monotonously as I handed the organs to Dr. Mallard.

We had been alike, the two of us. We were both the under-estimated ones. When our co-workers looked at us they saw incompetence and clumsiness. We weren't the A-team; we were the ones you got when you couldn't get the ones you wanted. We needed each other, understood each other. We were, I thought, kindred spirits.

"Stomach."

I know what people think of her, what they say about her. I can't deny that there is a degree of truth in their words; she did kill two men and she did steal government information. But I've found that it's so easy to make snap judgments when you're on the outside. Were her actions wrong and unlawful? Yes. But what would anyone else have done in the same situation? What would Director Vance have done if someone had abducted his children? What would Agent Gibbs have done if someone had abducted his daughter before her death? What would I have done if someone had abducted my sister or my mother or someone close to me…like Michelle?

I can't answer the question. I wish I could; I wish I could say that in that situation I would have had the strength to go to the authorities and trust in their abilities to do their job and ensure the safety of my loved one, but I know I can't. It's impossible to know how you would react in such an outrageous situation until you're actually put in that situation.

"Liver."

I had loved her. We had agreed from the beginning of it that our relationship was purely sexual, that there were no strings attached…but still I had loved her. That's why it had been so much harder to think that she had been using me, that I had been a pawn in her deceitful plan.

"Heart."

I like to think she had loved me too, that it hadn't all been a lie.

Before I knew it, the ordeal was over and Dr. Mallard was stitching her up. I stood mutely by, looking down at Michelle. Her eyes which had once shone so brightly were now closed. Her mouth which had once smiled at me like a vixen was frozen in an eternal frown. Her skin which had once practically glowed was now pale and pasty. Her hair—hair that I'd entangled my hands in countless times—lay limply around her face.

"Jimmy."

I looked up. Dr. Mallard eyed me with concern. "Go home."

I knew it wasn't a request but an order.

"Yes, Doctor."

As I prepared myself to leave, Dr. Mallard left to retrieve something from the storage room. I wasn't sure if his short departure was intentional or just a fortuitous coincidence, but I was grateful for the time I was given.

"Good-bye, Michelle," I whispered to her; my final good-bye.

I opened the drawer in which I kept my cell phone and car keys…and there I saw something that made my heart jump. A pair of leopard print panties…part of a matching set. Michelle and I hadn't used autopsy in two years and I know that they couldn't have gone unnoticed in that drawer for such a long period.

Was it a sign? If it was, God or whoever had sent it obviously had a healthy sense of humor.

I didn't take them; that was a bit morbid in my mind. But the sight of them, the reminder of the passion she and I had once shared, was enough to give me strength. I left thinking not of espionage and deceit, but of warm embraces and stolen kisses.

And of love.


End file.
